


Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

by Todesengel



Series: Mag7 Bingo [8]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is away but the ranch still needs running</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

Sarah woke and stretched out an arm, sleepily reaching across the bed to where Chris lay. Except, of course, Chris wasn't here this morning – hadn't been here for nigh on six days now. It was a fact she knew all her waking hours, and yet in the half-daze of morning she still expected to stretch an arm out and feel the rangy warmth of her husband.

But there was no Chris this morning, and there wouldn't be for another day if the trade fair went well. Sarah hoped, for his sake, that it was going well – that he'd sold their stock and picked up a new stud to replace Vanguard and that he and Buck got thoroughly drunk so that when he came home, the only thing he'd be bringing with him would be a new horse and sack of money. She loved the man beyond life itself, but even with the truth of her mama's words that a man is a man even after he's married ringing loud in her life, she had to admit she didn't love the slowly building orneriness she'd been seeing in Chris over these past few months. Lord bless Chris for trying to be a good man, but Sarah had known what she was marrying, and Chris was just damn near intolerable when he tried to be "good" all the time.

Still, as much as she appreciated having Chris occasionally go off and drink too much and fight too much – not only because it made him as gentle and loving as a kitten when he came back – she did miss him. She missed the smell of him, the feel of him. She missed the scratch of his beard against her cheek, the roughness of his hands, the smell of leather and neatsfoot oil and the faintest hint of gunpowder that always hung around him.

No use moping around in bed, though. Chris may not be here, but there were still chores to be done. And so Sarah got out of bed – slower today then yesterday. The little one growing in her belly had been restless all night, and she ached in places she hadn't known she could.

"Hush, my love," she whispered to the small life. "Daddy will be home soon."

And he would, too. Tomorrow, if all went well – and even if it didn't go well, he'd be home tomorrow, because he had promised her he would be, and Chris didn't break his promises. And tomorrow was Sunday – chicken and dumpling night. And maybe she'd make him some corn bread and fresh butter and beer brought up cold from the root cellar.

Sarah took the milking pail down off the peg and went out into the paddock that held their milk cow and her young calf. It was a bull-calf again, and they'd have to slaughter him soon, before he got too big and his meat turned tough. Sarah felt a small pang at that thought, because he was a sweet young thing, awkward and clumsy, and he'd plant his little bull head against her belly and low at her, begging her to rub his soft, floppy ears. Still, he wouldn't be worth much as he got older, and they didn't need a bull on their farm.

She led the cow into the milking shed, the bull-calf gamboling along at their heels. The cow _moo_ -ed impatiently as Sarah began to milk her. The cow's udder was warm and supple under her hands, the motion rhythmic and soothing – squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull. She hummed to herself as she worked, as much to keep the cow calm as to pass the time. The bull-calf mouthed at her hands, running his big, sloppy tongue along them as he tried to get to his mother's teats, and she laughed and pushed him out of the way.

"Not now," she told him. "Wait your turn."

The bull-calf butted at her hand more insistently and Sarah had to move fast to keep him from kicking over her bucket. The rich, white milk slopped up high on the metal sides and over onto her hands in warm, thick droplets. There was more than enough there for her, she decided, and the bull-calf was young yet. Let him eat and grow fat before sending him to the butcher.

"Ok, ok," she told the bull-calf as she untied the cow, shooing them both back into their paddock. She carried the bucket down to the small pond Chris had made and poured the milk into the tall can they'd set there to allow the milk to separate. She checked the other one while she was down there – it could wait a few hours, and then she'd have milk tonight and butter tomorrow, and Chris, home and happy. The thought warmed her heart and her loins. Oh how she longed for him, for his hardness, for the gentle way in which he held her.

Of course, he wasn't here, and would not be for a day yet, and there were still chores to do, so she went to feed the chickens and collect the eggs. The speckled brown had none for her today, the third straight day her nest was bare. She was either hiding those eggs somewhere in the bush or she had passed her laying time. Sarah weighed her with her eyes as the hen scrabbled for the bits of corn she'd scattered – the speckled hen was a plump girl, and probably not too old yet. She'd make a fine meal.

She started humming again as she finished the chores – hanging the wash to dry, airing out their bed, weeding the small vegetable patch Chris had cleared for her. After lunch, she rode the perimeter of their homestead, checking the fences and the pastures – they'd need to hire some laborers to make hay, soon. She hoped Chris had made enough money to pay for that; the last time it had just been the two of them and Buck, and they'd lost nearly half the pasture to rain. She loved Buck dearly, but the man was more a fighter than a farmer.

She carried yesterday's milk back up to the house – heavier than what she'd got today, but the bull-calf had been distracted yesterday – and skimmed the cream from the top. Nice and thick and just crying out to be used. She poured it into the churn and popped the lid on, then began to churn the cream. Up and down, up and down, the handle of the old wooden paddle made as smooth as satin from use. It reminded her of when they had been courting, and the two of them would sneak out to the river, and she'd take his cock in her hand and stroke it slowly while they kissed. Hot and hard and full of life and oh, she missed Chris so much right now. She missed having him between her legs and in her arms; she missed the taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of him. She even missed his sullenness and the irritating way he insisted on treating her like she was some fragile doll, like having this baby inside of her made her less of a woman.

Up and down, up and down, the barrel of the churn clamped tight between her legs. Up and down, up and down, her muscles slowly beginning to burn from the movement. She rocked against the churn, feeling the wood press up against the hard wetness of her quim. Not as good as Chris – not nearly as good – but it still felt oh, so wonderful. It still brought a flush to her chest and made her toes tingle. Up and down, up and down, faster and faster, each thrust into the churn sending pleasant vibrations through her body until she was panting with need, panting with pleasure.

"Oh Chris," she gasped, imagining that it was him thrusting into her, rubbing against that small nub of pleasure that hid among the folds of her sex. It had been so long, so very long – longer than the six days Chris had been gone. It had been weeks – no months – ever since her belly had begun to swell. As though Chris were afraid that fucking would harm this child, and this unborn babe would die too soon like their last two. Chris was a wise man, but he had not grown up on this land, like she did; hadn't seen a half-dozen babes die before they could be properly born, killed by the harshness of the world. A little fucking would make no difference, except that it might make the life they were carving out together a little more pleasant.

"Well damn," Chris said, low and rough. Sarah looked up to see him standing in the doorway, hat pushed back and face still grimy from traveling.

"Chris," she said, panting a little. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

Chris nodded and stalked towards her, eyes smoldering. Sarah felt the blush on her chest deepen, felt her heart speed up and her breath hitch in her throat. Chris hadn't looked at her like that since their wedding night.

"Chris," she said again.

"Come here," Chris said, and he swung her up into his arms, swung her so her legs wrapped around his waist. He laid her down upon their table, knocking over the tub of half-churned butter as he did so. One hand scrabbled amongst the layers of her clothes, desperate and searching, and she laughed, clear and happy, and guided his fingers into her waiting sex.

"Oh Sarah," he moaned against her skin. "Oh God."

"I love you," she told him, again and again. "I love you."

"Where's the goddamn bed?"

"If you put me down, I can show you," she said and he looked so torn at that thought that she laughed again. "Chris, ain't no need to hurry. My daddy ain't gonna show up with a shotgun any time soon."

She kissed his grimy face, kissed the face of the man she loved more than she thought her heart could bear.

The child in her belly kicked hard, protesting at being squeezed so tight. Chris pulled away, startled, and stared at her belly in wonder.

"He's a fighter, my love," she told him. "Like his daddy."

"Like his mama too."


End file.
